Reach Out and Touch Someone
by FraidyCat
Summary: One Long Night in a Convenience Store
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Reach Out and Touch Someone**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Genre: Drama, Angst**

**Time line: Any Time is Good For Me**

**Summary: One Long Night in a Convenience Store**

**Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Drat the luck.**

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**Chapter 1**

He almost didn't answer it.

Not that he was in the habit of ditching Charlie's calls.

But it was late. Almost midnight late, and Don was still on the drive home from work. There seemed to be some sort of conspiracy against his team, lately. Sure, they had a great solve rate — but did everything have to be solved at 4 o'clock or later, guaranteeing several more hours of paperwork?

At least tomorrow was Friday. Barring any new cases, or 4 o'clock solves on the half-dozen open ones they were working already, they might actually get out of the office at a decent hour, and have a real weekend. He knew it was the spectre of that possibility looming over them that had kept him, Megan, David and Colby dedicated to triplicate all evening.

And now, blurry eyes tried to focus on a red light as he heard Charlie's ring tone coming from his pocket. What would possess his brother to call him at midnight?

He tried to think. Was Charlie working on anything for the open cases? He couldn't remember anything. Three of them were from the Cold Case files, and the other three were about to join them there.

He felt a momentary stab of panic. Was something wrong with their father?

The light changed before he did anything about the ringing phone. Don spotted a vacancy — several, actually, at this time of night — in curbside street parking and pulled the SUV over. He was too frazzled to try to juggle driving and cell phoning. Not that it was ever a good idea…but sometimes, it just happened.

He idled the engine, brought the cell to his ear. "Hey, Charlie. It's kind-of late."

"Don." Charlie's voice sounded…Don wasn't sure how it sounded, really. Just not exactly like Charlie's voice.

"Yeah. Okay?" Don was so tired, he couldn't seem to form complete sentences anymore, and resorted to as few syllables as possible.

"I need to tell you…thank you. You've been a good brother, always. The last few years, working with you and seeing you more, they've been good. Remember them, okay? Help Dad, tell him I love him…I'm so sorry…"

Don's hand tightened on the wheel and he clutched the phone so hard he was afraid it would shatter. "Charlie, what's wrong? What're you talking about?"

He heard a shaky breath. "I'm…I'm sort-of involved in an oddly civilized robbery, right now. Hostages. We're each allowed to call one person, before…before it's over."

Don grasped at straws. "Right. And the oddly civilized perp is letting you tell me exactly where you are. Come on, Charlie, it's late. I'm tired."

Charlie's voice got steadier. "Not kidding, Don. Cops are already outside, so I guess he thinks it doesn't matter."

The fear, pushed back for only a moment, came back with a vengeance. "Charlie, it'll be okay. Where are you?"

"Convenience store. Close to home." Don heard something in the background. "Listen, I've gotta go, we only get two minutes each. Please remember what I said. Love you, D-"

The connection severed, and Don slowly lowered the cell phone to stare at it, as if he could will the text message "J– O – K- I- N- G" to appear. The brother half of his heart and brain shut down, and the FBI agent quickly dialed 9-1-1.

"Los Angeles County Dispatch. What is your emergency?"

"This is Special Agent Eppes, FBI. Do you have officers on the scene of a hostage situation? Convenience store?"

Hesitation. "I'll need to confirm your shield number, Agent."

Don swore and fumbled with his wallet, the SUV's dome light. He rattled off the numbers and waited an eternity for the dispatcher to check appropriate records. She then asked him two password questions, to make sure someone hadn't stolen his ID. Finally, "We do have officers at the scene, Agent. A hostage negotiation team and SWAT is currently enroute. We have no requests for FBI involvement at this time."

"Screw your requests," spat Don. "My brother just called me and said he's one of the hostages. The perp is allowing them one phone call each, before…before…where the hell is it?"

"Agent Eppes, I'm so sorry. 9th and Rose, Pasadena. Please report to Captain Davis, OIC at the scene. I'll radio him that you are on your way."

Don pulled back into traffic, suddenly oblivious to his own safety. "You do that," he said. "And tell him he's got FBI involvement now whether he wants it or not. I'm calling in my team, my Director, the Pope, if I have to."

Don threw the phone onto the passenger seat and used both hands to swerve around an idiot in front of him obeying the fucking speed limit. Then he almost bounced off the curb as he leaned and scrabbled for the phone again. Barely looking, he speed-dialed Megan.

"Please. Don," she groaned after several rings, during which Don was sure his heart had stopped several times — every time his mind replayed Charlie's call — "I just got home…"

"Now. Convenience store, Pasadena, 9th & Rose. Now. David, Colby, Merrick."

Megan's voice was at once alert and confused. "Merrick? Don, what…"

He found the brother half of his brain suddenly overtaking him. "Help," he choked out desperately. "Charlie needs help."

She spoke slowly and deliberately, trying to calm him. "Tell me what he needs, Don." She heard a screeching of tires, and her heart leapt into her throat. "Are you driving?"

"Need both hands," he growled, and hung up on her.

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OIC (equals) Officer In Charge


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

— **_BACKSTORY —_**

He almost didn't stop.

Time had gotten away from him. Again. One minute, he was finishing up the grading of today's test papers from Math 312, and deciding that it was still early enough to work just a little on cognitive emergence before he headed home. He was trying to do more of his work at the office, and less in the garage. He knew it worried and frustrated his father when he would disappear in there for hours, and even Charlie had been feeling the need lately to compartmentalize his life a little more.

Since Amita had left, accepting the Harvard offer, Charlie had spent some time thinking about how "the work" was overwhelming his life — and the lives of those close to him. He needed to set some boundaries, or his father's greatest fear would turn out to be a prophecy. Charlie would wake up one day, 85, covered with chalk, and alone.

This was only a step. Work should be work, and home should be home. Yet it was unbelievable how difficult it was. He'd thought he would get this part under control before he set some more goals, but so far all it was doing was making his days longer. He still worked just as long — now, he just had to drive home, afterwards.

He sighed as he checked the digital time display on the dash. 11:30. Not really that late — why did it feel so late? Probably had something to do with leaving the house at 6:30, without breakfast, and then skipping both lunch and dinner. Lunch hadn't really been his fault — it was the only time one his students could come in for an advisor appointment to work on next semester's schedule. And dinner? Well, he had talked to his Dad around 7 and promised to stop for milk…and then it was 11. Who knew?

He sighed again and pulled into the parking lot of the convenience store half a mile from home. He thought about claiming he forgot — that would be believable enough — but his Dad had been fighting a cold the last few days, and he shouldn't go out in the early morning air to get the milk Charlie forgot; and it was a certainty that he would. So Charlie pushed open the glass doors and headed for the cold case, barely registering the fact that everyone in the store seemed to be bunched in the same corner, and they were all staring at him.

He grabbed the milk and headed for the counter.

A stocky man somewhat shorter than himself bumped him hard as he pushed past him to the door. "Idiot," he snarled. "I told you to lock the door."

Charlie dropped his jug of milk on the counter and got out his wallet, not even looking directly at the clerk until he had a 5-dollar-bill in his hand.

When he did, the man behind the counter smiled at him. Tall, sandy hair…gloves? Inside the store? In April?

"If I had locked the door," the clerk said, "it would be a dead give-away that something was going on in here." Charlie focused on the semi-automatic pistol that suddenly appeared in the clerk's hand, saw him wave it toward the crowd in the corner. "Please join the others," he said, still smiling, and Charlie realized with a start that he was talking to him. "Elvis — you know what to do. Encourage this guy — and all the rest of them."

"SHIT!" the venom drew Charlie's attention back to the shorter man at the door. How had he missed that handgun, before? The man quickly turned a key in the lock and hustled back toward the counter. Charlie saw pulsating red lights in the distance. "Asshole must've hit the silent — cops are here already!" He shoved Charlie roughly toward the grouping in the corner. "Get!" Charlie got, hearing the arguments behind him in the haze of terror.

"Whatchoo calling me by name, for, Wiener?"

"Come on, El. We're not even wearing masks. It's not like we're leaving any witnesses."

Another sudden push at his back shoved Charlie into a man his father's age, who reached out a hand to steady him. He thought of Alan, waiting for milk and an absent-minded professor at home, and his throat closed up.

"Everybody in the walk-in, please." The taller man's voice was still pleasant, non-threatening…almost friendly. When he had herded his hostages, he smiled at their terror. ""Kneel on the floor. Semi-circle, backs to the door."

Charlie looked at the faces around him. Five of them, besides him. The old man on his right. He helped him lower to the floor. Two terrified teenagers on his left, a boy and a girl, dressed up. Must be out on a date. Then, a middle-aged woman, holding the hand of a young boy, only about 10. Charlie tried to smile at him reassuringly. The boy looked up at him with frightened eyes.

"What're we gonna do n…" Elvis' question was interrupted by a rattle at the front door, and Charlie ducked his head in terror at the sounds of rapid gunfire and breaking glass that followed. Absolute silence, punctuated only by muted breathing, and the sobs of the child, now cowering in his mother's side.

"Guess you showed them," remarked the taller of the two, and Elvis snarled.

"Won't try and come in here, again, will they genius?"

"Probably not. I saw that cop drip blood all the way back his car."

Elvis sounded a little less sure as he spoke this time. "So what now?"

His tall friend was unperterbed. "Well, I'd expect they're gonna try to contact us. Deal for the hostages."

"We can't let 'em go, they've seen us?"

"Calm down, Elvis. We'll deal. Doesn't mean we'll keep our end of the bargain. We'll use 'em to get outta here — and then we'll kill 'em, just like we planned."

The store telephone rang. There was an extension just outside the cooler, so the ring was loud, and Charlie jumped, felt the teenager next to him do the same thing.

"Ah. Bet that's our negotiator, now, El." Charlie heard retreating footsteps. The phone continued to ring as he heard the tall man's voice again. "Y'all just don't even have a dream about moving. Elvis is covering you, and I do believe the boy has a hair trigger."

Charlie swallowed hard as the phone was finally picked up. "Good evening," said Sandy Hair. "What can I do for you fine folks tonight?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

— **_BACKSTORY, continued —_**

He almost didn't let them make the calls.

But he was a sensitive man. A decent individual. He believed in honesty, and a certain amount of compassion. That's why he never let them believe, even for a moment, that there was a chance in hell of surviving this.

He also prided himself on being flexible. Thinking on his feet. Once the cops showed up and made preliminary contact, and he had laughed and hung up to show them who was in charge, it became obvious that they all had some time to kill. He began to think out loud. "Elvis. Go through the store and see what you can find for disguises."

"But they done already seen us, Sandy," Elvis protested. "You said we could kill 'em."

Luckily, Sandy was also a patient man, a characteristic that had served him well the entire time he had been Elvis' cellmate. "I know, El, but the cops don't know who we are. We're gonna use these people to get some more money, and transportation to Mexico. When we leave the store, we don't want the cops to make us."

Elvis might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he knew when someone was being patronizing. He mumbled something unintelligible and began to back out of the walk-in cooler.

"Stay down and away from the windows," Sandy reminded him, and regarded the kneeling motley crew before him. "You know what I always think is so sad when I read about things like this in the newspapers?" He spoke to them conversationally. "The idea that folks never saw it coming, never got to say good-bye to anyone." He made a decision. "You got cell phones, you can each make one call. Hell, they even give you that much in jail. I'll give you each two minutes for a sayonara song."

Sandy was also an educated man. They should know that.

His instructions continued. "First, empty out all your cash. No use wasting it. Just make a pile in the middle, there."

Sandy watched the shaking hands bump as they followed his order, and he saw the young boy withdraw a crumpled dollar bill and two quarters from his jeans. He added it to the small pile without protest. The gesture touched Sandy. "Boy," he said gruffly. "You go on and take that back, for now. That's yours." The child looked briefly at his mother, who shrugged and nodded, then pocketed his money again, careful to take only the same dollar he had placed in the pile.

When they were done, Sandy let them call. "One at a time," he said, "Two minutes. You first, gramps."

The elderly man looked at the younger one kneeling beside him and spoke quietly. "I don't have a cell phone," he apologized, and his curly-haired neighbor quickly offered his. The old man stared at it. "I'm sorry," he apologized again, in a near-whisper. "I don't know how…"

"Do you know the number?" his neighbor asked gently. "I'll dial for you."

"It's long distance. My daughter lives in Washington."

Sandy was a compassionate man, a patient man, but he had his limits. "Skip gramps," he ordered. "You people think we've got all night?"

He was surprised when the younger man turned his dark head to look him square in the face. "Let him have his call," he said, in a voice that shook, but had a core of steel that set off Sandy's radar. "You promised." Not waiting for an answer, he turned back to the older man. "Long distance is okay. Tell me the number."

Sandy silently watched as the younger man dialed, pushed "send" and gave the phone to the old man. He kept watching the young one, even while the other one left a message on his daughter's answering machine. Sandy had a gnawing about this one. He'd have to keep a close eye on him.

Before the two minutes were up, the old man handed the phone back.

"Go on, hot shot. Your turn."

He almost knocked the guy into next week when he mentioned the robbery, but even as he took a step closer to do it, he figured out that it didn't matter. Cops were already there. This might even work in his favor. Tomorrow, when they wrote about it in the papers, they would write about his decency, and compassion.

Elvis came back then, arms full of stocking caps, sunglasses, and paper bags from behind the counter. "Hey, I got a great idea. When we leave we'll be in the middle, surrounded by these guys, and we'll wear the bags, all of us, so they won't know who anybody is… What the hell?" He dropped his armload of goods and descended on the gallon-of-milk dude, snatched away the cell phone and used it to backhand him across the face. The man cringed away from him and he drew back his hand to hit him again, but Sandy grabbed it.

"Leave him alone. I said they could do it."

Elvis stared at him incredulously. "You what? Have you lost your mind?"

"El, the cops are already here. We're killing these people before morning. We can give them this." Sandy saw that Elvis wasn't convinced. "Listen, that's a real smart idea about the bags. Why don't you go back out and find a good lookout. See if you can find the lights." He grinned at Elvis, trying to get him to relax a little. "Hell, we've got ammo, Why don't you shoot 'em out? That oughta be good for a little cop freak-out." Elvis stared at him and shook his head a little before he, too, broke into a smile, and went back into the store.

"Okay, kid. Go ahead." Sandy figured the sound of Elvis shooting out the flourescent lights in the main store, although muffled by the thick walls of the cooler, still made impressive sound effects during the teenagers' calls. The two kids surprised him a little. First the boy called his mother, started crying like a baby and basically couldn't say anything that made sense. Wasted his whole call. Then the girl called her pastor. Her pastor. Not her mom, or dad, or even grandma. That was pretty unexpected, and it made Sandy a little nervous. If he had believed in God, it would have bothered him a lot more, he figured. Finally, the mother and son shared their call, and he let them go about three minutes, while they each talked to Dad. He would have let them have the whole four, but they were starting to repeat things as it was, so he stepped up and took the phone after three.

He poked the teenage boy in the back with the cell phone. Kid must've thought it was the gun, because he lit off crying again. "Geez, get a grip, dude. Your girl is here. I just want your phones, now."

He put the three phones he had collected on a shelf full of lunch meat, remembered that Elvis had the other one. He looked at the man Elvis had hit. He was kneeling silently in his place, maybe listing a little into the old man. There was a cut on his cheek, in the center of a rapidly forming bruise, but it wasn't even bleeding that much. Guy should be glad El hadn't thought to use his gun.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

He almost didn't remember to maintain cover, almost stood up and saluted when he heard the Chief's voice crackle over the radio.

Sure, a hostage situation was big.

That's why a Captain was OIC at the scene, along with the shift's Watch Commander. But he didn't expect to hear from the Chief until tomorrow, after it was all over.

Yet Captain Davis kept his cool and maintained his cover while the Chief told him that an FBI unit was on the way, and they had a request from Director Merrick himself for interdepartmental cooperation. He tensed as he 10-4'd the Chief. They knew there were hostages in there, the responding officer had seen a group near the back of the store before he managed to get himself shot. But LAPD Hostage Negotiation and SWAT were on the way. They could handle it. No need for FBI.

Who the hell was in there?

He was still wondering when a wild-eyed Agent in a FBI flak jacket actually tried to deck one of the patrolmen working the perimeter. He started to motion to his men to let the Agent through when gunfire erupted in the store, and everybody hit the ground again, backed a little further into their cover.

Except the FBI Agent, who ran in a crouch through the parking lot and skidded to a stop practically on top of Captain Davis. "You're the OIC? Tell me what's going on!"

Great. Just what he needed in the middle of a hostage crisis. A pissing contest with an Agent he never asked for, who obviously felt the need to take over the scene. Davis bristled. He'd told the Chief he would cooperate, not that he would roll over and play dead.

"The situation is under control, Agent. When my negotiator gets here we'll try again to establish communication."

"Again? What do you mean, 'again'? And you call a hailstorm of gunfire inside the store a situation under control? Dammit, we have hostages in there!"

"I realize that, Agent. I want this to end as much as you do. I've already got a man down."

The FBI agent ran a hand through his hair and dropped his head for a moment. When he looked back, he seemed a lot calmer. "Look. I'm sorry. Your perp — or perps — they're letting the hostages make phone calls out, to say good-bye." The Captain's disbelief was reflected on his face. "I know, sounds crazy. I couldn't believe it either," the Agent continued. "My brother is one of the hostages. He called me."

"Damn." Captain Davis found his immediate dislike of the Agent disappearing in sympathy. "Your Director called my Chief, asked for cooperation, I knew something was up…"

The Agent seemed surprised. "Merrick called you guys already?"

"Must be pretty concerned with his Agents' personal lives…"

A snort. "Don't kid yourself. Charlie's not just my brother. He does some consulting work for us — the NSA, too, sometimes. I'm just the beneficiary of Merrick considering him a valuable asset."

Captain Davis gave a low whistle and noticed more movement at the perimeter. "They with you?"

Don looked up to see Megan, David and Colby trying to get through the line. "Yeah. That's my team." He looked back at the Captain and offered his hand. "Don Eppes."

"Captain Brad Davis." He waved the rest of the team through the line. Don waited until they were grouped behind the car to ask again. "You've tried to establish communication?"

The LAPD officer nodded. "Right after I arrived, we telephoned the store. Man answered, asked us politely what we wanted. So I told him. Politely. Let the hostages go. He just laughed at me and hung up. Must have disabled the phone, then. All we get now is a busy signal."

"He didn't ask for anything?"

"This is Agent Reeves. Our profiler."

Captain Davis nodded at her. "No. Nothing. I don't know what all the shooting was just about." He glanced at the store, then back at the agents. "Looks like he shot the lights out. Wonder why he didn't just turn 'em off?"

Don looked at his three team members. "How did you guys figure out what was going on?" He glanced apologetically at Megan. "I don't remember giving you many details."

"I'm a profiler, Don," she answered. "I called dispatch, found out there was a hostage situation at the address you gave me, added in your frantic summons…"

"Some math we don't need the Whiz Kid for," Colby finished, then heard his own words and reddened.

Don tried to smile at him. "He called me. From inside." He quickly caught the team up on the hostage phone calls.

David looked at Megan. "What kind of perp would do that?"

She shrugged. "He could have some genuine feelings of compassion. He could just want people to think that he does." She frowned.

"What?" Don was watching her carefully.

"If it's the first, that could work for us. The negotiator might be able to reach him, he might develop a connection to the hostages and become reluctant to hurt them."

Captain Davis asked, because he wasn't sure Agent Eppes could. "And if it's the second?"

She looked at her team leader. "He'll get tired of the game. Stress will push him over the edge. There's no predicting what he'll do, or when he'll do it." She spoke almost apologetically. "There's too much we don't know. We don't even know if he's working alone."

"He's the one answering the phone, making decisions," Colby pointed out. "So even if he has partners, he's the one calling the shots."

Don, still looking at Megan, slumped against the car. "So you're telling me," he started slowly, "you're telling me that Charlie is being held hostage by at least one person, and he's either a nice guy having a bad day, or a psychopath who could completely lose control at any second, with no warning?"

Megan nodded silently.

Don tilted his head back until he hit the metal panel. He wasn't really talking to any of them when he said, "So why am I thinking the answer is behind door number 2?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

He almost didn't understand what was happening, at first.

When the shooting had stopped, but he still heard the echos of it, he thought he heard Don's ring tone, from a distance, and it was getting closer. Elvis must not have broken the phone when he smashed it into Charlie's cheekbone.

The ring was very close, now.

"Damn thing's ringing," Elvis growled somewhere behind him.

"Yeah." He heard Sandy answer. "Probably should've turned them all off. We'll have the Bells of St. Mary's going here soon."

Elvis missed a beat. Then, "Right. Whatever. I'll just shoot this."

"Wait." Sandy's voice took on a note of interest and Charlie found the cell phone shoved in front of him. "Who is it? Do you recognize that number?"

"N- No," Charlie lied.

"Let's see who it is."

"Are you crazy?", Elvis asked.

Sandy's voice became less congenial. "Don't call me that, El. Don't you ever fuckin' call me that." The voice smoothed out again, was friendly in Charlie's ear as the phone was lowered over his shoulder. "Go ahead. Luck of the draw. One last call. Hope it's not a wrong number."

Charlie held the phone tightly, hoping it would help his hand to stop shaking. "Y- Yes?"

"Charlie! Thank God. I'm in the parking lot, we heard the gunfire. Is everybody okay?"

"I…I absolutely understand that. Fine."

Don was confused. Charlie had called him earlier, and told him what was happening, why wasn't he being as up-front now? He lowered his voice a little. "You don't want this guy to know who you're talking to?"

"I don't think so, thank you. Perhaps I'll take two."

Don grinned. Good ol' Charlie. "Okay, great. There are two of them. What else can you tell me? How many hostages?"

"I'm sorry, I really don't need that many. I don't even know where I would store six of them."

"Good, Charlie, you're doing great. What else can you give me?"

"I appreciate your calling, but that doesn't look too good right now. Go ahead and do what I told you earlier."

Don tensed. Was Charlie was reminding him to give his message to Dad?

"Well, you know what Colby always says at the end of a long day," his brother continued.

Don grew frantic. That reference was just too obscure. "What, Charlie, what?"

Charlie tried to chuckle, but it wasn't very convincing. "Right. 'Nothing more to see here'; 'class dismissed'; 'beam me up'; 'Elvis has left the building'…"

Charlie's voice suddenly cut off in a grunt, and Don heard an unfamiliar voice, something "told you", another grunt from Charlie, he thought, and then the line was dead. It had been all he could do not to call out Charlie's name, and now it was all he could do not to call back.

He looked at his team members, huddled around him, along with Captain Davis, and repeated what Charlie had said.

"That was real clever, the part about the numbers," offered Davis. "I don't get all that other stuff."

"Me neither," seconded Colby. "I never say any of those things."

"Exactly."

Everyone looked at David. "He knows we're all going to know that, so it has to be another clue of some kind."

"But it's just a string of clichés," noted Megan, "and they all mean the same thing. He can't really mean that it's over…unless…" her voice lowered and she looked away from Don, to Captain Davis. "Unless he believes it is, that there's no way out for the hostages. Maybe he's telling us just how unstable the guy in charge is."

Davis nodded his head. "Could be. Makes sense. He's your guy, you know better than me what he would try to tell you. It's just…"

Don reached out, just barely stopped himself from grabbing Davis' arm and drew his hand back. "What? You heard something?"

Davis shrugged. "It just struck me, how in that string of clichés, he only used one name."

Colby suddenly laughed. "And what a name! 'Elvis'!" He stood up, breaking cover and startling everybody. He leaned down again and grabbed David's arm. "Come on, we're going back to the office. We're going to run every Elvis who's ever been popped for robbery in California."

David looked at Don, who waved him off. "Go. It might be something."

As the two Agents ran for the perimeter again, they passed another LAPD officer on the way into the huddle.

The woman squatted and looked at Captain Davis. "Lieutenant Richards, Hostage Negotiation. Understand we've got a situation, here."

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The first kick was to the back, Elvis screaming, "I told you not to let him answer! He gave 'em my name!"

Charlie, pushed forward by the kick, rolled over awkwardly just in time to catch the next one in the ribs, and tried to squeeze into a ball to protect himself. He knew he needed to save himself from head injury if he could, so he wrapped his arms around his head, even though it left his ribs unprotected. Elvis landed another solid kick before Sandy intervened. His tone was decidedly less friendly.

"El. Leave him for now." He kicked the teenage boy in the back. "Put all the money in one of these bags. Everybody's wallet, too. Do it without standing up, hand it backwards over your head to Elvis." The boy just sat for a second, almost too scared to breathe. When he felt his girlfriend move beside him as if she were going to do it for him, he swallowed and did as Sandy had ordered. He had to crawl a few feet to Charlie, still curled in a ball, and reach into his pocket for his wallet. When he was done, Elvis roughly jerked the bag out of his shaking hand, and they heard retreating steps. Sandy spoke again from the entrance to the walk-in. "We'll be leaving you for a while, but remember, we're right outside. It's a glass door. I see movement, I see this door open, I won't stop Elvis again."

The steps retreated further, there was the additional sound of someone sweeping all the cell phones off the shelf near the door where Sandy had placed them earlier, and then the ominous slide as the door shut.

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Sandy and Elvis slid to the floor directly outside the cooler. Here, they could use the light from the cooler to see, and they were clear of the windowed store front.

Sandy reached into the bag Elvis was still holding and began to take out wallets. "Count the money. I'll see if anybody held out on us."

Elvis dumped the money and cell phones. "You shoulda let me kill him. We don't need all six of 'em."

Sandy threw the second wallet into the growing pile of pictures and credit cards. "I'm still thinking about it. Might teach the others a lesson. But I like your idea about the bags, the hostages surrounding us, and we can't do much with that short kid. We really only have five."

Elvis grunted, counted under his breath. After another minute or so, Sandy stiffened beside him.

"Well. Holy shit. This could change everything."

Elvis stopped counting and glanced at Sandy, followed his eyes to the snapshot he was holding. The curly-haired one, holding a bat, so it must have come from his wallet…smiling beside another man, who was wearing a baseball mitt on one hand and roughing the gallon-of-milk dude's hair with the other. They were both wearing "FBI" t-shirts.

Elvis took a breath. "Probably just novelty shirts?"

Sandy turned over the photo. "July, 2005. Playing with Don's office in charity game against LAPD." It was scrawled, but squinting, Elvis could make it out. He took another breath and looked back at Sandy, who was smiling.

Sandy turned the photo back over and looked at it again. "Yeah. This could change everything."


	6. Chapter 6

**(A/N: Language alert. Sandy stops being nice.)**

**Chapter 6**

He almost didn't say anything, but he decided his back was to the door, and even if they were watching, they wouldn't know. He hoped. Besides, the young man had been so kind to him, earlier.

"Are you all right, son?"

A brown eye peeked out between the arms wrapped around his head. "They're gone?"

"Yes. We're not supposed to move."

"No problem." The young man did finally lower his arms, wrap them around his ribs, instead. He looked fully at him, and tried to smile. "I'm Charlie."

He found himself smiling back. "Pete."

The teenager suddenly spoke. "Betcha never drink milk again, man."

Charlie chuckled and grimaced, slowly pushed himself into a sitting position and leaned back against the wall where he was, not rejoining the kneeling group. He took a few breaths, looking down, before he looked at them again. "What happened to the clerk?"

The teenager answered. "He's behind the counter. Dead. Did everything they asked, but Elvis just blew a hole in him anyway. The other guy was really pissed."

Charlie's eyes lingered on the young boy next to his mother, clutching her hand. He looked back at him with round, solemn eyes. "What's your name?"

The boy looked at his mother, who nodded. "Jeremy. You've got funny hair."

"So I've been told, Jeremy. My Dad hates it. Wants me to cut it all the time."

"What about your Mom?"

Charlie smiled sadly. "She liked it. She used to tell my Dad she was taking me to the barber for a haircut. When we got there, she would only let him do the tiniest of trims, five minutes, tops. Then she and I would walk down the block to the ice cream store and have banana splits before we went home."

Jeremy and his mother both smiled. "That's funny. Your Dad didn't figure it out?"

Charlie shook the topic of discussion. "Nope. Kept telling my mom to find a better barber, though."

This time Jeremy laughed, and the teenager's girlfriend entered the conversation. "What are we going to do?"

After a moment of silence, the boy kneeling next to her spoke in a squeaky voice. "Don't worry, Laura. They won't really kill us."

Jeremy blinked at him rapidly a few times, and seemed to make a decision. "You don't have to pretend, for me. I watch television. I go to movies. And I'm smart. We know what they look like."

Pete tried to reassure and distract him. "Real life isn't always like the movies, it might be all right…I'm sure you're very smart. Do you enjoy school?"

Jeremy shrugged. "Some of it."

His mother squeezed his hand. "He gets excellent grades, in everything but math. He studies very hard, though, and tries his best. That's all his father and I ask."

"It's okay, kid," offered the teenager. "You'll never use all that stuff after school anyway. You won't need it in the real world."

Charlie, head leaning against the wall, laughed.

"Well, he won't!", the teenager sulked. "Not unless he goes to work in a bank, or something."

Charlie lowered his head and looked at him. "I'm sorry. I wasn't making fun of you. I was just imagining repeating this conversation to my students."

Jeremy brightened. "You're a teacher? What grade? What school do you teach at? I think I'd like to be a teacher. Or a baseball player."

The reminder of Don caused Charlie's eyes to darken, but he struggled to keep up his end of the conversation. "I teach in a university, Jeremy."

The boy's eyes widened. "Wow! Do you have to know everything?"

Charlie laughed. "I hope not. Teachers at universities usually only have classes in one or two subjects." He switched his attention to the teenager. "I happen to teach applied mathematics. You know, 'using math in the real world' kind-of stuff."

The teenager reddened when everyone else laughed, but saw that Charlie was smiling at him and eventually smiled himself. "Okay, smart guy," he said, tone more relaxed but letting Charlie see the fear still in his eyes. "So what are we going to do?"

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Lieutenant Richards waited until her SWAT team was in place, complete with night vision goggles, before she used the megaphone.

"Hello, in the store! This is Lieutenant Richards of the Los Angeles Police Department. We'd like to talk to you about what you want. We're going to telephone, again, in five minutes. Please reconnect the phone if you can."

Sandy looked at Elvis, then stood and put the extension back on the hook. He pushed open the cooler door. He was pleased to see that besides the trouble-maker sitting up, no-one had moved. He walked to the far wall and stood over Charlie.

"Dr. Charles Eppes. Cal Sci University." He leaned over until his face was inches from Charlie's. He spoke lowly, and the menace in his tone was unmistakable. The friendly Sandy was gone, now. 'On. Your. Fucking. Feet." Charlie tried not to tremble as he used his legs to push himself up the wall. He didn't break eye contact with Sandy, and he didn't speak.

Sandy had palmed the photograph, and now he turned his hand around and held it up to Charlie's face. "Who is 'Don'? And I don't want any more games. You make me believe you, or I will kill the boy, in front of his mother."

Charlie swallowed, saw the semi-auto out of the corner of his eye, in Sandy's other hand. "M- My brother."

Sandy raised an eyebrow. "'Help Dad, tell him I love him,'" he quoted from Charlie's original phone call. "You called Don."

Charlie nodded.

"Don is an FBI agent?"

Charlie nodded again.

"So after he got that call, he figured some stuff out. Now I've got the FBI out in the parking lot as well as LAPD."

"Prob…Probably."

"You're doing fine. One more question. Was that him on the phone, calling you back?"

Charlie wanted desperately to deny it, but he knew they'd probably checked the recent call list and seen Don's name already. "Yes."

Sandy again exhibited his exceptional memory, quoting from the second telephone conversation. "'I'll take two…can't store six…Elvis has left the building'. Dr. Eppes. You might have gotten away with it, except for that last one. And the picture helped, of course." Sandy suddenly brought a knee up hard into Charlie's groin, and the air left him as his knees buckled, and he hit the floor again at Sandy's feet.

The phone rang.

"Let me help you sit down," Sandy said, and kicked Charlie. He was aiming for the same place, but Charlie's hands were there, and the blow was deflected. Sandy would have been disappointed if he hadn't heart the bones crack.

The other hostages watched, for the most part silently, except for a soft "Stop!" from the old man, who was hushed quickly by the teenager. Sandy let it go and walked to the cooler entry again, plucked the receiver off the hook outside.

"Talk." The time for niceties was over.

"This is Lieutenant Richards. Who am I speaking with? What should I call you?"

"Bitch, you can call me anything, as long as it's not late for dinner."

She ignored that. "What can I get for you? You must be hungry. We can send in food."

Sandy laughed. "Damn, woman, I'm in a fuckin' grocery store! Don't try all that textbook shit with me. I only want to talk to one person. Get me Don Eppes. He's FBI. Probably even standin' right next to you."

Lieutenant Richards looked at Don, who had heard everything on the cruiser's radio system. He held out his hand. If Megan was right about this guy, he wasn't going to be part of sending him over the edge. Sounded like he was already standing on it.

She hesitated, then handed over the phone.

"This is Special Agent Eppes."

"Just as smart as your brother. Maybe smarter, since he's lying on the floor an odd shade of purple right now, and you're nice and safe in the parking lot."

"What did you do to him?"

"Listen, Baseball Boy, what I did to him is nothing compared to what I have in mind. You get me 5 mil, cash, unmarked, unsequential. None of those fancy ink bombs, either. A panel van, big enough for the eight of us, park it right outside the doors. Inches. Leave the sliding panel open, so we can just step right into the van from the store. Then everybody leaves. Everybody. We get a free ride. We see anybody behind us, in front of us or on top of us, we'll start throwing bodies out the back."

"I'll need some time to get that much cash."

"Shut up. Just shut the fuck up. It's L.A., pick a bank. You're FBI. You've got until dawn."

"That may not be enough time."

Sandy's voice grew more intimate. "Let me tell you what I'm going to do to him. I learned a lot of stuff in prison. I will make him beg for death before it's over. And I will enjoy it. He's just the type I like."

Don tried not to make any noise, just clutched the phone harder. He felt Megan's calming hand on his arm.

"And then…then when he doesn't even care, anymore…then I will just start sending pieces of him out to you. A finger. An ear. A testicle."

Don couldn't stand anymore. "No! Stop, you sick bas…"

Lieutenant Richards ripped the phone back out of his hand, using some effort. "We'll start on that," she said into the phone. "What can you give us?"

Sandy laughed coldly. "Not a damn thing, bitch. Don't bother me for at least an hour. I may get a little head start with the fine doctor."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

He almost didn't manage to swallow the bile back down, almost lost his lunch all over the cooler. He was sure he would have, if he had actually had any.

He managed to catch the part of the conversation where Sandy explained to someone — was he talking to Don? — the horrors he had in store for him, if his demands weren't met on time. Then he kind-of faded out again, springing back to reality at the sound of the cooler door sliding shut again. He didn't like reality, and he let himself slip off again.

The other five exchanged more worried glances the longer Charlie lay there. Jeremy looked up at his mother. "Did they kill him?"

"No, sweetie, you can see him breathing, look."

"Then why doesn't he get up?"

"He'll be okay, kid," offered the teenager. "Just let him take his time."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

By the time Colby and David got back to the scene, half-an-hour after they had talked to the perp and received his demands, there was an LAPD tech van serving as command central in the parking lot. Don was pacing outside the van when he saw them, and frowned at the number of files in Colby's hands.

"What did you get?", he asked as soon as they were in earshot.

Colby held up the files. "Helluva lot more guys named 'Elvis' than I thought. We got almost 30 right here in L.A. County, paroled on robbery convictions in the last five years."

Lieutenant Richards leaned out of the van and looked at Don. "Get your people in here and we'll go over what we know."

It was a tight fit in the van with LAPD's technicians, Davis, Richards, and Don's team. David and Megan sat on the floorboard, half outside. Don assumed control, quickly introducing everybody before turning again to Colby. "30 possibles?"

Colby nodded. "29, actually." He thumbed through the files and dropped several on the floor. "These seven are already back inside on parole violations." Three more files dropped to the floor. "These are dead." He dropped some more files on the pile. "These five are unlikely. Couple of 'em are almost 80. One is actually a monk, now. Two are LAPD informants."

Don looked at the files Colby still held. "Still 14 possibles," he noted.

Colby dropped almost all the files, saving three. "We've contacted 11, so we know they're not in there."

Don smiled grimly. "Odds are getting better."

"We've re-established contact," put in Lieutenant Richards. "Mike, play the tapes back."

Don looked at the floor while they all listened to the negotiation again. When if was over, there was silence. Then, they played the tape of Don's earlier call to Charlie.

Captain Davis cleared his throat. "Okay. So this is what we know. There are two perps holding six hostages. One of the perps is named Elvis. One of them has been to prison, and came out of there a pretty sick bastard."

"That's not Elvis," Colby said suddenly.

All heads turned his direction.

"Okay, listen to the end of Charlie's call again. Try to pick up more of the voice in the background."

The technicians were soon playing the tape again, and Don thought he was going to have to leave the van the third time he heard Charlie being hit, or kicked, or whatever they were doing to him. This time, though, they heard more of the other voice. "…told you not to let him answer…" The tape was switched off.

Colby continued, waving the files in the crowded van. "I'm Elvis. I hear Charlie tell you my name. That pisses me off, and I let someone else know about it. Elvis didn't want Charlie to take the call, but Elvis didn't make the final decision. The other guy is in charge."

Don looked at the tech. "Can you do a voice match of that voice against the one on the negotiation tape?"

"I'll try, sir. Not much to work with on this one." The officer soon had voice prints on a split screen. "Definitely not a match."

Don nodded, looked at Colby. "You're right. Elvis is not in charge. So add that to what we know."

"Now we speculate," put in Megan. "Elvis didn't want his name out. Maybe that's because he has a jacket. If our Elvis also did time, who is he most likely to team up with on the outside, to pull another job?"

"Someone he met on the inside," offered David.

"Right," she confirmed. "But someone he's willing to play second gun to. Someone with more experience…or just a stronger personality…Colby, let me see the three guys you have left."

He handed over the files and she opened them all on the floor of the van and peered at them. "This one's a two-time loser, worked alone both times. This one's part of an established ring, one of the leaders." She picked up the third file and looked at it more carefully, then tossed it into the bigger pile of eliminated suspects. "This one is out. First offense, a family feud. Step-father pressed robbery charges on an 18-year-old kid. Sentenced to the minimum, out early on good behavior with a fresh college degree courtesy State of California. I'm not seeing him in this."

Don leaned over and picked up the first of the files she had opened. "My money is on this one. If he's popped again, it's the third strike. Working alone wasn't doing it for him, so he latched onto someone he thought would keep him from getting caught, this time. Elvis Andrews. 33. Career criminal, juvenile record…" He handed the file back to Colby. "Contact the Warden at Pelican Bay. Find out what kind of incarceration this guy had."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Although he didn't know it, almost half-an-hour passed before the cold floor convinced Charlie to push himself, with one hand, back into a sitting position.

He leaned against the wall carefully and pulled his legs up, cradling his broken hand behind them against broken ribs, and hoped that one day, he would still be able to have children. He saw everyone staring at him and gave a lopsided smile. "Did I miss anything?"

"That was harsh, man", the teenager answered. "How're the little dudes?"

"Ricky!"

The teenager looked at his girlfriend. "What?"

She rolled her eyes and shivered. "We've got to do something. That guy's crazy. We're not just gonna die, we're gonna die in a Mexican desert somewhere and our families will never find us."

Charlie shifted a little, trying to find a more comfortable position. "She's right, he will kill us. But not in Mexico. The FBI will never let him leave with us. Once he realizes that…"

"But what can we do?" Pete looked at him, and Charlie saw the desperation in his eyes.

"We've got to try and play them off each other. Pit one against the other. It's all we've got."

"That little Elvis is getting tired of Sandy calling all the shots," started Jeremy's mother, but she stopped speaking abruptly when the door began to slide open again. Elvis stepped inside, slid the door shut again and leaned back against it.

"Didn't want y'all to get lonely."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

He almost didn't think he was hearing right, when they called back at 2.

"We know your partner is Elvis Andrews, and from the description his girlfriend gave us, we're betting you're Sandy Matthews, his cellmate from Pelican Bay."

How the hell did they figure all that out?

"So it won't help you now, just eliminating all the hostages. We don't need them to testify. We've got you without them. Every time you harm one of them, it's just an additional count against you. They're liabilities to you, now."

He sneered. "I know what you want, bitch, and I ain't lettin' them go. Put the FBI guy back on."

"This is Agent Eppes."

"You guys are good. I'll give you that."

"Sandy, we're working on the money, and one of my guys is picking up a van for you now. It's going to go a lot better for you, if you give us something. One hostage. You don't need all six."

Sandy snarled, unhappy with the turn things were taking. He wanted to punish someone.

He decided on Don.

"You pick."

"What?"

"I'll give you a choice, G-man. You can have your brother. Or, I got a kid in here." He looked through the open cooler door at the hostages again, silently noting that it was a bonus that they could hear his end of the conversation, and he could punish Charlie at the same time he punished Don. He looked over at Jeremy. "About 10, maybe. I can send him out."

Sandy smiled to himself. No way was he letting the FBI guy's brother go, he was way too much fun. But they didn't know that. FBI Don would have to live with what he was going to have to do next, and Charlie would have to live with listening to him do it. At least for a little while.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don heard the demand and squeezed his eyes shut.

He could get Charlie out of there.

He could get Charlie out of there!

He opened his eyes again and looked from one member of his team to another, then at Richards and Davis. He saw the same thing reflected in all the eyes.

Everybody knew what he had to do.

"You've got a child?"

"Yeah, he's here with his mother."

Don raised a hand to his hair in a familiar gesture of frustration. He couldn't do this.

Sandy gave him a few seconds to think about it and then spoke again. "You have to say it, Don. You have to choose." He looked back in the cooler. "Kid! Whar's your name?"

"J- Jeremy."

Sandy turned away again. "Say it, Don. Charlie, or Jeremy. Just one word. Come on, tough guy. Whose life means more to you?"

Don felt like he was screaming, but in reality his voice was only a whisper. "Jeremy."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"I don't want to leave you, Mama!"

Jeremy's mother took his face in her hands. "Please, baby. I'll see you in a few hours. You give this to me, don't be afraid. You've been so brave all night. Just one more thing. Do it for me, baby."

Jeremy looked in a panic at Charlie. "But you said…"

Charlie interrupted him. "Before we leave, Jeremy, I'll give your Mom my phone number. Then you can call me sometime, and I'll come over and help you with your math, if you want."

Jeremy's eyes flickered.

"Hey, not many fifth-graders have a college professor helping them with their homework, dude. I'd hold him to it." Ricky tried to smile at Jeremy.

Sandy was getting impatient. "Enough. If he doesn't want to go…"

Jeremy's mother pushed him roughly to his feet. "No! He's going!"

Jeremy looked at her one last time and started in a halting walk toward Sandy. Then he stopped and looked up at him. "Can I say good-bye to Charlie?"

"Damn. Good thing you're leaving. Too much trouble. Make it fast."

Jeremy ran to Charlie and stuck out a hand, but Charlie grabbed the back of his head and pulled him into a quick embrace. Sandy waved the handgun. "Enough!", he said again.

Jeremy pulled away and started for the door of the cooler again. Both Sandy and Elvis were there, Elvis looking none-too-happy about releasing any hostage, even the kid.

Sandy gestured toward the front of the store. "Key's in the lock. Just turn it, push the door open and start walking. I'm sure there will be people out there waiting for you." He gave Jeremy a shove in the back.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

After he said it, he thrust the phone at Lieutenant Richards and pushed past Colby to get out of the van.

He tried to walk away from all the activity, but all he found was more activity. There was a crowd of bystanders behind the police tape. Reporters focused lights on him and shoved microphones at him.

He turned away from the crowd and saw a cruiser. He walked quickly to it, opened the back door and slid into the seat.

He could have gotten Charlie.

Training and common sense told him that every hostage in there had a family. Someone was waiting for them all. And when there was a choice to be made, children were removed from a hostile situation first. He knew that. Part of him understood that.

But his heart told him he had just killed Charlie.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

He almost didn't hear Ricky calling him. Didn't, in fact, until the teenager offered a frustrated "Millkman! What the hell are you doing?"

Charlie had been leaning his head against the wall, eyes closed, thinking. He must have been moving his lips unconsciously again, from the guarded looks he was receiving from his fellow hostages when he opened his eyes and saw them all staring at him.

He grinned. "Sorry. I do that, sometimes. I was just trying to figure out some things. Trying to envision the surrounding area outside, and where the snipers are most likely to be, and then calculate the trajectories and velocities…also, which points in the store will avail the cleanest shot, in conjunction with allowances for the trajectories required so that I could place the target satisfactorily to draw one of them into the line of sniper fire while eliminating the target at the precise moment…are those guns both 44 caliber? I don't know a lot about guns, but they seem a lot like my brother's service weapon."

Ricky gaped at him.

"Snipers? In the middle of the night?"

Charlie looked at Jeremy's mother and nodded. "They're out there. Night vision capabilities."

"I…I know a little about guns," offered Pete. "Enough to tell you those are both 44 caliber."

Charlie nodded again. "Good. Hopefully they don't pack their own ammunition; that could throw everything off. Even the name brands contain slight variations. I think it's safest to estimate a velocity of 1,700 fps."

Ricky finally found his voice. "Holy shit. Maybe you can use math somewhere besides a bank…but I gotta tell ya, I don't know what the hell you're saying."

Charlie smiled at him, hopefully with a lot more bravado than he felt. "Don't worry about it. I've got it all under control."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don sat in the back of the cruiser until the back door suddenly opened. A female LAPD officer made a noise of surprise and involuntarily stepped back, one hand restraining the young boy beside her, the other reaching for her service weapon.

Then she saw his flak jacket and ID badge. "Excuse me, Agent. I didn't realize anyone was in here. I'm transporting Jeremy to headquarters, to be debriefed and meet his father."

Don made a move to get out of the car. "Of course, Officer. I apologize — just taking a few minutes." He shrugged apologetically. "This was the only private place I could find."

Jeremy, hugging a blanket around his shoulders, stared at the large "FBI" emblazoned on Don's flak jacket. "Do you know Don Eppes? He works for the FBI."

Don, about to stand, settled back on the seat so that he could maintain eye contact with Jeremy.

"I'm Don Eppes. You must be Jeremy."

The boy nodded, solemn. "Charlie is your brother."

Don nodded, silent.

"I said good-bye, before I left," Jeremy continued. "I was just going to shake his hand, because that's what my Dad taught me to do with grown-ups, but he grabbed me behind the head and pulled me in to hug me. It scared me, a little."

Don tried to reassure him. "I'm sure…"

Jeremy stiffened. "I'm still talking."

The LAPD officer smiled a little as the FBI agent held up his hands in mock surrender. "Sorry. Rude of me."

"Anyway," Jeremy said, "he only did it so he could say something into my ear, and Sandy wouldn't see him."

Don looked at the boy intently. Charlie had found a way to send them one last message about what was happening inside. This was good. This was great. He knew his brother. He wouldn't waste this opportunity. He waited impatiently for Jeremy to give him the message.

"Charlie said, 'tell Donnie he made the right choice'", the boy recited, and continued to look at Don.

Don hung his head and blinked his eyes rapidly several times. He was a hardened, experienced FBI agent. He would not cry at a crime scene.

He thought of Charlie, who could have used that manufactured moment to send out some more information that might save his own life, choosing instead to reassure his brother. Damn. Damn. When he got Charlie out of there, he was going to slap him upside the head himself.

"I like Charlie." Jeremy was speaking again. "He said he'll come over and help me with my math."

Don raised his head again and smiled at the boy. "That'll be good. He's a good teacher. He still helps me with math, sometimes." This time he climbed out of the cruiser and watched the officer buckle Jeremy into his place. He knew he shouldn't put the kid in this position, but he had to know. "Is he hurt?"

Jeremy looked up at him. "A little. They kick him and stuff. He laid on the floor for a long time, once. But he's sitting up and talking again, now. I think he's planning something. He was talking about…about playing with them?" He saw the confusion on Don's face and tried to remember just how Charlie had put it. "Play with one, or make them play with each other, or something…" his voice trailed off.

"Play one against the other?" Don asked, and Jeremy brightened.

"Yeah, that sounds close! I hope it works. I want my Mom."

Don hadn't thought he could feel any worse, but he felt the screw in his chest tighten one more notch. Charlie was going to try, hurt, to mess with the minds of two armed assailants, at least one of whom was an all-out psychopath.

Charlie was going to get himself killed before the dawn deadline.

What the hell was he planning?


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

He almost didn't answer the 3 o'clock call, but got tired of the ringing. He ripped the receiver off the hook.

"Unless you got everything ready early, there ain't nothing more to say," Sandy snarled. "No more hostages will be released until we are safely out of here. Don't call again until you've got the money, and the van." He hung up the phone and stood in the doorway of the cooler for a while and looked at the hostages. Then he shoved Elvis, sitting on the floor outside, with his foot. It looked like that idiot was going to sleep.

"Get up, asshole. Go in there for a while and watch 'em. I'll try to find a safe place to watch what's going on outside."

Grumbling — he had been half-asleep and he hated being woken up before he was ready — Elvis stood and entered the cooler, slid the door mostly closed again so he could lean against it. He yawned.

"Excuse me?"

He looked at the old man's back. "What?"

"My knees. Arthritis. Please, can I just straighten out my legs and sit here?"

Elvis sighed. Trouble-makers, every one of them. Still, he was an old man. Sort-of reminded him of his grandfather. "Just go ahead and back against the wall, like that other trouble-maker. Keep your distance from him, though."

Pete grunted and painfully pushed himself a few feet back against the wall, leaving his legs straight in front of him. He absently rubbed one knee. "Thank-you, Elvis. I didn't believe what the other one said about you."

Charlie involuntarily stiffened, and his ribs protested. He looked at Elvis and saw begrudging interest.

"Whaddya mean? What's he been saying?"

Ricky suddenly threw in a thought. "He says you're stupid. Can't think for yourself."

Elvis took a step closer to the group, face reddening in anger. He raised his gun, intending to send the teenager into next week, but then the boy's mother spoke.

"I think he's using you. He's making you do all the shooting, so after, if…if things don't go right for you — he can say it was all you."

The teenager's girlfriend spoke next, in a frightened voice. "R-Right. So he can do what they do on television? Cut a deal?"

Charlie's eyes traveled from one to the other, and he sat and marveled. He was being held hostage with a troupe of thespians. Where were they getting this?

Elvis, growing angrier, suddenly looked at him. "Come on. You're the college guy. You must have an opinion, too."

Charlie shrugged, and kept his mouth shut.

Elvis walked through the gap in the kneeling group caused by the absence of Charlie and Pete, and didn't stop until he was right in front of Charlie. He raised his semi-auto, pointed it directly at Charlie's head. "I asked you a question."

Charlie swallowed. "I- I think he's going to kill you when he kills the rest of us. He's using you to control us until he's safe in Mexico with the money. Then, he won't need you anymore."

"He's not listening to anything you say." Elvis lowered the gun and looked at the old man, who was talking again. "You didn't want to let Jeremy go. You didn't want to let us make phone calls. You didn't want to let Charlie answer that first call that came in. It's obvious he doesn't repect you."

Elvis made a sound in his throat like a wounded animal and crossed the cooler again to the door, sliding it open and sticking his head outside. "Sandy! Where the hell are you?" He spotted movement a few feet to his right and saw Sandy on the floor counting the money they had gotten from the till and the hostages.

He strode over and stood over him. He spoke angrily. "What are you doing? Pocketing the take now? You're not watching anything!"

Sandy looked up at him, sneered. "Don't be an idiot, El. You never finished counting this. Probably would have been wrong, anyway." He looked back at the money in his lap, and never saw it coming. If he hadn't have looked away, he never would have believed it, anyway. Elvis didn't have the balls to take him on.

He was sorting the money into denominations as he counted. He reached to add another to the stack of twenties, and wondered, briefly, what was dripping onto the money and what had exploded. His ears were ringing.

There was no pain.

The first shot was fired directly into his brain, and short-circuited that response. The second shot, to his heart, bled him out in a few seconds.

Slumped over the stacks of money, his dead body continued to jerk as Elvis screamed, and emptied his weapon, finally dropping it on the floor next to Sandy, and pulling from the back of his jeans another weapon.

He stood, breathing heavily, looking down at Sandy for awhile.

Then he leaned over and wrested the other 44 out of Sandy's dead hand, straightened, put his back-up piece back into his jeans. He turned and strode again for the cooler.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The Agents and Officers in the parking lot instinctively ducked further into their cover when gunfire erupted again in the store. Lieutenant Richards began phoning again, immediately.

Don waited in the semi-circle of personnel at the tech van for someone to answer, and his heart thudded. _"Please, God,"_ he thought over and over, _"Please don't let it be Charlie."_

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

They heard the argument, Sandy's ill-timed insults, and then they all jerked when they heard the gunfire, and the screaming.

Charlie, eyes wide, locked eyes with Pete.

One crazy down, one to go.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

He almost didn't get out of bed. But if he rolled over one more time, he would wear out the mattress. He sighed and focused again on the clock. 3:45. Way too early. He never should have taken that nighttime cold medicine and gone to bed before 9 last night. He'd been awake for 45 minutes, and it was finally apparent he wasn't going back to sleep.

He sighed again and sat on the edge of the bed, took his time getting stiff limbs to work together, again. This age thing wasn't working out for him. He dressed as quickly as he could in the cool morning. At least his cold was better today. That medicine had really knocked him out. He hadn't even heard Charlie come home.

He hoped his son had remembered the milk.

If there was milk, he would make some biscuits from scratch for breakfast, maybe even start a couple of loaves of bread and put them out to raise before Charlie got up. Might as well do something useful, if he was going to get up this early.

He slid his feet into slippers and stopped at the bathroom, then walked quietly past Charlie's door and down the stairs. He was developing a taste for the biscuits and a craving for fresh bread when he opened the refrigerator.

No milk.

Just like that, his mood changed.

He slammed the door, and started making coffee. He did not know what had gotten into Charlie, since Amita left. He was down at that damn campus at all hours, now, even more than before. On more than one occasion he had fallen asleep there and not come home at all. For all he knew, Charlie wasn't upstairs now. Maybe he hadn't heard him come home because he hadn't come home.

Enough was enough. He had to get over it, whatever it was. He had promised. In a 7 o'clock phone call, he had heard his father's cold in his voice and promised to get him whatever he needed, swore that he was writing it down and that he would be home soon. At the time, Alan had been touched. Now, he was angry.

He and Margaret somehow failed to convince Charlie that the people in his life were not just satellites who revolved around him. Fine. Let him make his own damn breakfast. If he was here.

As Alan took the first cup of coffee and pushed through the swinging door into the rest of the house, he stopped being quiet. He threw himself into the recliner. It was still too early for the newspaper, so he grabbed the remote and started channel surfing. It was hard to tell exactly where the steam was coming from — the cup of coffee, or him.

"_In this exclusive dramatic footage, you can see a young child emerging from the convenience store, LAPD and FBI officers waiting for him safely behind a barricade of police vehicles. Our policy prohibits the release of the child's name, but our sources have confirmed that several other hostages are still inside the store."_

Alan stopped surfing and looked at the screen with interest. The store — it was the one just down the street, less than half a mile away. He shivered. The picture switched to a live remote, the reporter supplying a brief history of the night, stumbling over her words as she tried to find new ways to say the same few things she actually knew. Alan leaned forward a little. Yep. He could just make out Colby in the background. Don must be there too, then.

"_We have a second camera on the scene, and can show you the hostage release from another angle, now. If you'll watch the lower right portion of your screen, you will see the shadow of the boy still inside the store, as he unlocks the door…here, he hesitates, looks back toward the market and starts across the parking lot…"_

Alan slowly lowered the recliner and walked over to the television. "Show me that again," he said.

As if she could hear him, the reporter answered. _"We'll run that new clip another time. Watch the lower…"_

But Alan didn't watch the lower portion of the screen. He watched the upper. He watched the part where the boy walked past Charlie's car.

Just like that, his mood changed again.

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After the second hail of gunfire was heard in the store, the line of bystanders and reporters was pushed back again. Homes on all four sides of the corner market were evacuated. Alan saw that he couldn't get within a block of the place, so he pulled to the curb, parked, and walked to the barrier.

He didn't even try to talk the officer into letting him pass. He just took out his cell and started calling Don. The call went to voice mail, Don's usual procedure when he was at a crime scene. Alan called again, then scrolled through the address book and called Colby, Megan and David, waiting to be logged onto all their voice mails. Then he started over with Don.

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Don's pocket was driving him crazy.

All through the conversation Lieutenant Richards had conducted with Elvis — who was now in charge, he said — his damn phone kept vibrating. Over and over.

Elvis didn't ask to speak with him, like Sandy always did, and that drove him crazy, too. He needed to feed himself the delusion that being the one to speak to the perp somehow kept Charlie alive.

His pocket buzzed again. "Dammit," he growled. "Who keeps calling me at 4:15 in the fucking morning?"

Megan reached for her own phone, clipped to her belt. "I'm getting it too," she said.

Colby was already staring at the cell phone in his hand. "Don. I have six missed calls from your Dad."

"Five," said Megan.

Don looked at David, who reached for his own phone. He checked the display and looked at Don. "Six."

Don's cell began to vibrate again even as he took it from his pocket. "Might as well take number 8," he sighed, and stepped out of the van to wander the back of the parking lot.

"Dad? What's wrong?" No sense in telling him anything he didn't already know. Maybe he was just calling because Charlie never came home last night.

"It's all over the news, Donnie. Your brother's car is in front of the store. I saw it. I'm down at the barricade."

The news? Why was his father watching the news at 4:15 in the morning?

"Yeah. He's a hostage."

He heard a quick intake of breath. "How do you know he's in there? Just from the car? Maybe he got out?"

Don sighed. "I know, Dad, okay?"

"What do they want? Are there demands?"

Don shook his head. "You know I can't tell you that, Dad."

Alan raised his voice. "Is there a deadline?" Don didn't say anything right away, and that was all the answer Alan needed. He lowered his voice to a near-whisper. "It's soon. My God. My God, Don."

"You should go home, Dad. You can't do anything standing at the barricade."

Alan tried to make his voice reflect his conviction. "I will not go home until Charlie goes with me."

Now Don was whispering. "Me, neither."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

He almost didn't have time to say anything during the brief conversation Elvis had with the negotiatiator, after he killed Sandy. He only managed a quick, "I've got to get to the counter", still looking at Pete, before Elvis was back in the cooler with them.

Elvis immediately began to pace the room restlessly. "Don't have to worry about him, anymore. Never shoulda hooked up with him again on the outside. Always making me the patsy. Sent me to solitary twice. Don't know why I ever…" Abruptly he stopped pacing and slid down to the floor near the door, glared at the silent group before him.

"Shut-up," he said, and they exchanged looks. No-one had made a sound.

Charlie tried to shift again very quietly. If he pressed his back against the wall, it helped his back, but hurt his ribs. If he slumped a little, his ribs felt better but his back began to ache. His hand was throbbing along with the beat of his heart. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

He may have faded out, for a while. It was so quiet, the sound of breathing lulling him under…then he heard someone moving, and opened his eyes again to see Elvis get to his feet and start pacing again.

"I need a cigarette. Somebody give me a cigarette."

Charlie saw Pete lift a hand from the knee he was rubbing, hesitate and lower it again. "Sorry," the old man said. "I forgot. Quit again." Charlie saw the telltale rectangular shape in his sweater pocket, noted the nicotine-stained fingers, and wondered sleepily what he was doing. Then Pete looked at him, and Charlie woke up.

"Behind the counter," he offered. "All kinds of cigarettes behind the counter." He felt all of them looking at him now, but he just looked at Elvis.

Elvis seemed to think for a moment, and Charlie thought about telling him not to hurt himself, then thought better of it. Elvis waved his gun at him. "You get 'em. Gotta cross the window."

Charlie didn't want to appear too eager. Then Ricky scared him to death.

"He's hurt, man. I'll go," said the teenager. Charlie held his breath.

"Don't argue with me!" Elvis growled. "That guy is not out of my sight. I don't trust him. As for the rest of you, I'll be able to watch the door of the cooler. Nobody in here moves." He waved his gun at all of them, even though Pete and Charlie were the only ones who could see him. "I'll empty this into the first person who so much as sneezes." He looked at Charlie again. "You getting' up, or do I have to come over there and convince you?"

Charlie pushed himself up the wall, and wincing, holding his hand tightly against himself, walked slowly toward the door of the cooler. He hadn't moved in hours, and it hurt.

He hoped he could do this.

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The radio in the tech van crackled as they listened to the sniper's report.

"Repeat, movement inside the store. It is not either suspect."

Two snipers had been deployed. Once Elvis and Sandy had been identified, they were supplied with photos of them. The officer continued his report.

"Crossing front of store, entering check-out area. Presumed hostage."

Don grabbed the microphone out of the radio base. "Description."

Silence. "Male. He's kind-of green, sir, hard to get a lot of details."

Don knew the snipers were using night vision, but he also knew they could see enough to tell it wasn't Elvis or Sandy. "Give me what you can."

"I've got him from my angle now," came another voice. "Slender. Not moving too smoothly, possible injuries. Lots of hair."

Don slowly replaced the mic and lowered his head.

Whatever Charlie was doing, he was doing it now.

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Charlie pawed through the cigarettes and oriented himself. He tried to measure the distance and plan a route. He looked back in the direction where he knew Elvis was in the shadows, gun trained on him. "Soft or hard pack?", he asked. "What brand?"

"Doesn't matter," Elvis growled. "Just grab something and get back here."

Charlie saw the opening at the back of the counter. The clerk.s body was partially blocking that way out. He would have to crawl over him. He swallowed. "Menthol?"

"Damn it, get the hell outta there, NOW!" Elvis must have reconsidered, because he suddenly added an order. "Bring me a lighter, too."

_Thank you_, thought Charlie. He fumbled with the lighters hung on the side of the cigarette display and one fell to the floor. "Sorry. Dropped it," Charlie said, and leaned over as if to pick it up. He heard Elvis snarl something else and take a step, and Charlie dropped to his knees behind the counter, made for the opening in the back. The pretzels. If his calculations were correct — dear God, let his calculations be correct — he needed to be at the pretzel display about five feet in front of the counter, exactly 37 degrees to the right of the position he had left Elvis in. That should make Elvis come out into the store far enough, into the sniper's line of fire.

He held his breath as he crawled over the clerk. There better damn well be a sniper where he thought one would be, on the roof of the small green house across the street. He crawled around the end of the counter, lighter still clutched in his hand.

"Get out here! Get up!" Elvis was sounding frantic.

Charlie threw the lighter so that it bounced off the glass doors of the beer case directly across the room. The sound should distract Elvis. Desperate, terrified, ignoring his protesting body, he rose to a lean and scurried across the empty floor to the pretzel display.

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There was a change in the sniper's voice.

"I have visual on the suspect. Repeat, I have visual."

This time Captain Davis picked up the mic. "Do you have a clear shot?"

"Negative. Hostage has moved out into store and has placed himself between…Captain…Hostage appears to be drawing suspect further into my line of fire."

Don lifted his head and met Colby's eyes. Apparently that sniper case and its lessons had lingered in Charlie's mind. But he couldn't be doing this.

Charlie couldn't do this. Did he think math could save him from a bullet?

Don, having difficulty breathing, hung his head again.

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He stood next to the pretzel display. "I'm leaving, Elvis."

"I will drop you before you get to the door, tough guy!" A step. "Get back here, now!"

Charlie saw the barrel of the gun come out of the shadows and took one step back and to the right, causing Elvis to do the same. He waited, and Elvis took another step.

1,700 fps. He counted the half-seconds off in his head. He needed to drop…right…n…

Charlie hit the floor in a shower of pain and pretzels and glass.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

He almost didn't understand what Megan was saying, at first.

She was pulling on his arm and Colby was jumping past him out of the van. He looked at her, confused.

"He's down," she repeated, "the suspect is down!"

Then he was out of the van, and David was trying to hold both him and Colby back.

"Wait! We don't have a confirmation on the other one!"

Don pushed against David. "Elvis shot Sandy already! Let me through!"

Captain Davis added his weight to David's. "Agent, we don't know that those shots neutralized the other perp. We have to wait."

Don suddenly sagged against David, eyes trained on the front of the store.

He wasn't sure he could wait anymore.

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Charlie could still think, and the all-consuming fire convinced him that his calculations had been wrong. He must not have dropped in time. Elvis must have shot him.

He lay in the pretzels and tried to figure out where, how serious it was. He tried to lift his head to see if Elvis was down. He couldn't do either one, so he just lay there with his eyes open, and looked sideways towards the beer.

He saw tennis shoes around the same time the pain began to settle in a few specific places.

"Charlie? Dude. He's dead, man. They're both dead. Are…are you dead?"

He recognized Ricky's voice. "Hope not," he whispered.

Hands began to probe at and around him.

"I don't see any blood." Jeremy's mother.

"What hurts, son?" Pete.

Charlie closed his eyes and thought.

It wasn't really possible, was it? That it had worked?

He opened his eyes again. "I- I think just the old stuff," he said in wonder. "My ribs, and my hand, when I fell on them — I may have made it worse…but I don't…" He started to move, swimming a little in the pretzels. "Help me sit up."

"We probably shouldn't move him," offered Laura, but Ricky's hands were already working, and soon Pete joined in and Charlie was sitting up and looking at them, almost in shock.

"I can't believe it," he said quietly.

Ricky, kneeling in front of him, smiled. "You can't believe it? Man, I am so going to study for my next algebra test…"

Jeremy's mother glanced nervously at the door. "Why doesn't someone come in?"

Charlie followed her gaze. "They don't know for sure about Sandy," he answered. "We'll have to go out. Can you guys help me stand?"

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They saw them come out.

Together.

Five hostages. A middle-aged woman who must be Jeremy's mother. An old man. A teenage girl. Charlie, leaning a little on another teenager, a boy.

The teenager might be supporting Charlie, but Don felt his own knees go weak.

He was frozen behind the tech van, watching as the group made its collective way to the first police vehicle, where Captain Davis had run to meet them. Whatever they said convinced Davis to give his officers the go-ahead, and Don watched an army of uniformed, vested personnel headed for the market, riot shields up.

He realized he was walking, then, and couldn't remember getting his legs to move. "Charlie!", he choked, and over all the other noises around him, Charlie heard Don and lifted his head, began to search the darker corners of the lot. He smiled when he saw Don.

Don broke into a jog, then, and in a few more steps threw himself at Charlie, pulling back quickly when Charlie yelped in pain. "Shit, I'm sorry…" He clutched Charlie's face between his hands. "You idiot. You absolute idiot. What did you think you were doing?" He couldn't stop himself, he hugged Charlie again, trying to be more careful, but what started out as light pressure soon turned into a vise grip. He wasn't sure he could ever let go of Charlie again.

The sound of Megan's voice, her questions to Charlie, finally got through the haze of relief and fear enough to make him back off again.

"How badly are you hurt? Tell me what happened, Charlie." Megan's professional demeanor was blown as soon as Don pulled back a little, though. She leaned in to hug Charlie herself. "God, Charlie," she said into his ear. "It's good to see you."

Captain Davis caught Don's attention. "I'll radio for the EMTs. They're on standby, it won't take long."

Don saw Charlie flinch. "Please, Don. It's not that bad…"

Don looked at Davis. "Let me take him to the hospital and get him checked out, take him home for a few hours. I'll bring him in for debriefing later." Captain Davis started to shake his head and Don hurried on. "Both of your perps are dead. You've got all the other hostages. You can wait a few hours. Please."

Davis hesitated, then pulled a business card out of his uniform pocket, leaned into the cruiser for a moment and came out with a pen. He turned the card over and scribbled a number, then offered it to Don. "This is my personal cell. Call me when you're coming in, and I'll meet you." He looked again at Charlie. "Something tells me I want to hear this story."

Charlie smiled. He indicated the pen with his head. "Can I borrow that?"

Captain Davis held out the pen. Charlie took it with his good hand and Don noticed the other one for the first time. Bruised, swollen. Don winced, and Charlie held the pen. "Um…and another business card?" Davis smiled and pulled out another one.

"Donnie." Don pulled his attention away from Charlie's obviously broken hand long enough to look up, but was still too freaked out to really understand. Megan finally took the card and the pen, and Charlie smiled. "Thanks. Could you write my cell number on the back?" While Megan did that, Charlie looked at Captain Davis again. "Could you give that to Jeremy's mother? I promised to help him with his math."

Captain Davis took the card and pen back. "Oh, yeah," he said, turning to the store. "I definitely want to hear this story."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14 _—EPILOGUE —_**

He almost didn't hear him. He was concentrating on getting Charlie to the SUV, parked at the edge of the lot. His arm was around Charlie's waist. Charlie insisted he could get to the vehicle under his own power, but Don still needed to touch him. Charlie stiffened, and Don was worried for a moment that he should have let Captain Davis call the EMTs. Then he heard a frantic "Charlie! Donnie!" and turned slightly to see his father hurrying toward them, David at his side. Sinclair must have gone down to the barricade to get Alan.

They were at the SUV and turning around by the time Alan caught them. Don let go of Charlie too soon, because Alan flew at him and the bigger man's bear hug made Charlie grunt and his knees buckle. Don caught him under the elbow. "Dad! Dad! Loosen up, I think he's got some broken ribs. At least."

Alan allowed Don to peel him off Charlie, then immediately grabbed his head in the same gesture Don had used earlier. "Son. My God, son." He leaned his own head into Charlie's, and Charlie lifted his good hand to grasp one of his father's arms.

"I'm okay, Dad, it's okay. It's all right, now. Calm down."

Alan finally pulled away and dropped his hands from Charlie's face, quickly wiped an eye. "Don't tell your old man what to do."

Charlie sagged a little against the side of the SUV. "Dad, I remembered the milk, but I didn't get a chance to pay for it. It's still in the store."

Alan snorted. "We will never drink milk again. Ever. We're all giving up cereal."

Don grinned. "Dad, can you get Charlie in the passenger seat? We need to take him to the hospital and get his ribs taped…x-ray his hand…"

Alan nodded and reached around Charlie to open the door.

Don walked quickly around the back of the SUV and opened the driver's door. He saw the digital clock in the dashboard and glanced again at the sky. Almost 5 in the morning, and it was still so dark. If they hadn't been in the city, he'd still be able to see stars.

He turned back to the vehicle, and in the dome light watched his father tenderly buckle Charlie in, much to his brother's embarrassment.

As he climbed behind the wheel and waited for his Dad to get in the back seat, he smiled at Charlie.

It was always darkest, before the dawn.

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FINIS

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**A/N: Okay, that's it. Many experiments here. I wanted to try and hurt Charlie just a little, leave him still standing in the end, and I wanted him to not just end strong, but be strong, and smart, all the way (cuz I think he would be). Finally, the most difficult part…**

**AUTHOR'S POP QUIZ: Which three words started every single chapter? (Had some difficulty pulling that off, but it wasn't as hard as "Alphabet Soup".)**


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